


purify

by lumailia



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Grimm!Pyrrha - Freeform, Jaune Is Sad, also one scene is p violent but it is NOT GRAPHIC I do not have the stomach for that, backstory speculation, but also sweetness once you get through the angst, hella symbolism, only one fight scene this time, post v5, post volume 5, renora on the side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 21:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15252669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumailia/pseuds/lumailia
Summary: death is never what it seems // don't you know dead girls still dream?





	purify

+

            When a girl is born from the shadows, the first thing she feels is her heart. 

            There’s no need for blood, with this new body—only dust, and all she needs lies in the red crystal pulsing at the center of what will soon reform as her chest. Still, the sensation of it, that steady, sleepy rhythm, is overwhelming. She can’t remember the last time she _felt_ something. Really, she doesn’t remember anything at all.

            More shadows gather, a quiet storm about her heart. They become her ribs, her shoulders and collarbone, the lithe framework of her limbs. If she had enough of a body to keel over from the heady rush of it all, she would. She is living, breathing. Existing. She doesn’t know where she came from, but that’s not what matters. It only matters that she was something before, and now she is this.

            Bone by bone, vein by vein, darkness stitches a broken girl back together.

            Her new eyes, jewel-shiny crimson, flicker open. She is in the Beginning Place, she believes. The forge of all new lives. It is not as her instincts expected it to be; the stories say the world began in dust and light, but there is no light here. Shadows cloy at a cavern flushed in red and violet dust, like a nebula contained in a bottle.

            Then, a figure walks out of the deepest dark. Tendrils of it still hang to her shoulders, seeking her embrace. The visitor’s skin and hair are white as the moon, veined in black, and her eyes burn in the same red as the girl on the table’s.

            A table. That has to be what she’s leaned against. She moves her shadowy arms, testing the restraints that bind them. They’re weak. A little more force, and her elbows could bust right through them.

            But she doesn’t want them to. She feels an obligation to the woman standing before her, almost like that of a mother to a child. An image flashes before her—a little girl with red hair, chasing an older woman through a field of wheat—and she understands.

            In her new life, this _is_ her mother. The womb from which she came, the giver of her life. Were her knees not bound, she might sink to them in reverence.

            “Salem,” she offers instead. What better a gift than for her mother’s name to be the first she ever speaks?

            Salem reaches up her hand, curling slender fingers under the point of her chin. “Pyrrha,” she says, her voice a quiet echo. “My little victory.”

            _Pyrrha_. The shadow girl tries it on her lips, rolls it across her tongue. This name, fluid as the shadows that made her, is her own.

            Salem lowers her hand and waves it across Pyrrha’s chest. Purple dust gathers and white blooms over black, hardening into plates of red-streaked armor. A mask molds to the curves of her cheekbones. The final piece to form, a bloodred javelin entwined to her by curls of shadow, grows out of the palm of her hand.

            Using the javelin, she shears apart her restraints, and Pyrrha Nikos—whoever she may have been in her last life—is reborn.

+

             Salem seats Pyrrha at the head of a banquet table made of crystal and bone. There are a few guests in her company, sprinkled among mostly empty chairs—a tall man with a bristly mustache, a boy with hair like woven silver; a girl dressed in armor and bandages, her lichen green hair feathering her cheeks. By the blood-flushed hues of their skin, Pyrrha tags them as human. Human, but not enemies. Salem wouldn’t give them a seat at her table if they were. Still, Pyrrha’s presence makes them vigilant, faces cast in anticipation as she moves for her seat between the shafts of sallow light beaming through the windows, as if the shadows that make her might shrivel up and burn.

            But it will take far more than light to destroy her.

            She sits down and the man with the mustache moves a seat closer, obviously to inspect her.

            “Give her space, Watts,” Salem orders. She smooths her skirt and takes the chair beside Pyrrha. “All children, Grimm or not, need a little room to be curious.”

            “Did you forget the extent of my assistance in bringing her to life, my lady?”

            To Pyrrha, their bickering is background noise—she’s still caught on the word _Grimm._ That must be what she is. Not human, not ghost, but Grimm. It doesn’t feel as nice as her name, but it’s an answer nonetheless.

            Salem relaxes against the high back of her chair, drumming her sharp black nails against the table. “Will our good friend Hazel be making an appearance today?”

            “He’s guarding the portal with Adam,” the green-haired girl answers.

            “Taurus was always a coward,” Salem remarks.

            “But he knows a way to get into Atlas. He’s our best chance of getting the Relic back from Qrow Branwen and those Beacon students,” says the silver-haired boy.

            “The borders to Atlas are closed, and the comms towers are still down. There’s no chance they’ve left Mistral yet, and with our new weapon, we can be sure they won’t. Pyrrha will make short work of them, and then the Relic will come tumbling into our hands.”

            Pyrrha watches the humans at the table all turn to face her with pride swelling in her chest. She has a _destiny._ Destroy the enemy, take back the Relic—already, she can sense the hunger for a fight growing within her, causing her fingers to twitch around the neck of her javelin.

            “Where will I find them?” Pyrrha asks. Her voice sounds as one, but also many. Discordant pitches grate one atop the other, shifting with every word.

            “So she speaks,” says the green-haired girl.

            “Salem and I aren’t fools, Emerald. We know the importance of a voice,” Dr. Watts responds. “Especially hers.”

            “Tell me where the keepers of the Relic have gone, and I will find them,” Pyrrha declares. Some violent urge, an instinct not yet sharpened, makes her shoot to her feet, slamming the blunt end of her javelin into the floor. “I’m ready.”

            “Settle down, my child. I’ll be the judge of when you’re ready,” Salem croons. “When the time is right, you’ll find your targets trailing north from Haven Academy. There are eleven of them.”

            Shadows fill Pyrrha’s throat. “Eleven?”

            “Most are…nonessential weight,” Salem continues. “Your mission is to kill the girl with the Relic and anyone who might try to stop you. Except the girl with the silver eyes—she belongs to us.”

            Pyrrha compartmentalizes Salem’s words as an order. Slinging her javelin onto her back, she leaves her seat and starts for the open threshold at the end of the banquet hall.

            Until she freezes in place, the darkness that forms her legs shooting out in strands to glue her to the floor. She peers over her shoulder. Salem has one hand outstretched, black lips set in a frown. A flicker of shame seizes Pyrrha’s crystal heart.

            “Not so eager, child,” Salem croons. “You know I’d hate for you to walk out the wrong door.”

+

            Salem is bound to her abode by a curse—from who, Pyrrha doesn’t know. By the way her face constricted when she mentioned it, as if the very words made her bones ache, Pyrrha knew it’d be uncouth to ask. The question continues to gnaw at her while Dr. Watts and a tentacled globe, Salem’s only method of seeing the world beyond, lead her to the portal.

            Their path cuts across a field of black rock and violet crystals. Dust-rich meteors bob on the air like leaves on the wind, unbound by gravity. Rivers of black shadow, the same kind that formed Pyrrha’s body, run across the rocks. This is not the Beginning Place, either. Nor is it Remnant, the world where the Relic is lost. Salem’s realm is a Universe of its own, shaped by rules Pyrrha will find completely contrary in Remnant. She marvels at it.

            It’s the perfect place for a girl like her to be born.

            The portal spins in the hollow of a rocky arch, glowing with what she can only imagine are the tails of whirling stars.

            “You know your mission,” Dr. Watts says, clamping a hand on the armor that covers her shoulder. His touch makes her flinch, like it’s fraught with electricity.

            “I know my mission,” she echoes.

            “Then go on,” Salem says, voice distorted by the globe. “The portal won’t stay open forever.”

            She surges forward with two confident steps, enough to let the portal’s light touch her face. But then she stops, an unwelcome hesitation causing her insides to ice over.

            “And Pyrrha?” Salem beckons, and Pyrrha understands her own hesitance—Salem has simply regained control.

            Still, she does not turn. The portal has her transfixed. “Yes?”

            “Should you find the boy they call Ozpin, let him live. But only to make him wish he hadn’t.”

            Pyrrha nods, locking away the name. Then, with a new, implacable hunger aching inside of her, she steps through the portal and into the forests of Mistral.

+

            With his legs laid across the scrunched-up shell of his sleeping bag, Jaune Arc sits and counts the stars. Around him, his friends and teammates have all found ways to sleep—or at least fake it. Nora is certainly sleeping. He can hear her snoring from a few feet away, her face half-buried in the crook of her elbow, Ren’s arm curled protectively around her waist.

            Whatever counting stars had done to calm him, the feeling fades.

            Jaune is happy for them, of course. Getting the two of them to own up to their feelings was about as easy as getting Blake to play with Zwei—that is, nearly impossible. But here they are now, sleeping peacefully beneath the stars, locked together as two perfect halves.

            He knows there’s no use in dwelling on what could have been, that he shouldn’t spend so many nights imagining Pyrrha lying beside him, so many battles wishing she were fighting at his back. Yet he can’t help it. It’s been months since they lost her in the Fall of Beacon, and her absence stings sharply as ever. Especially now, with Blake back and Team RWBY reformed, if still working to fill the cracks in their bond.

            That will never happen for JNPR. Pyrrha is gone, and there’s no way to get her back. Still, when he looks at the stars, he likes to imagine she’s up there with them, shining bright as she did in their days at Beacon.

            He can only hope he’s made her proud.

            Turning away from Ren and Nora, he starts to wriggle back into his sleeping bag—

            —until something rustles in the brush at the edge of their camp.

            Slowly, he gathers Crocea Mors and inches toward the source of the noise. The fire has waned to nothing but a quiet red burn among the coals, making it nearly impossible for him to see. Fear sets his pulse racing. If Grimm have come to attack them, he’ll have to pray his scream is loud enough to wake the others.

            Something jumps out of the brush, punching Jaune’s heart into his throat. But relief sets in just as quickly. The intruder on their camp is only a fox, looking for warmth by dying light of the fire.

            “Jaune, what’s going on?”

            The sleepy voice belongs to Nora. She blinks a few times, turns her attention to the fox now snuggled on the stones by the fire. “Aw, did that little cutie scare ya?”

            “Just,” Jaune starts, letting his shoulders slump, “go back to sleep, Nora. Everything’s fine.”

            She gives a long yawn and closes her eyes. “Roger that, Team Leader.”

            Jaune watches her lie back down and shuffle closer to Ren, twining their fingers together. The softness of the gesture, followed by Ren’s receptiveness, tugs at a cord of tension in his chest. If only he had kept Pyrrha from facing Cinder that night, grabbed her hand and fled with her while her kiss was still fresh on his lips.

            But that’s not what she wanted—she chose to be a hero, even if it meant only tragedy. Pyrrha never backed down, and now, neither will Jaune.

           

+

            In the first two days of her travels, Pyrrha counts twenty Grimm and two humans. She follows the latter because she thinks they must know the way to Atlas, but in all her hours of trailing them from the shadows, she’s become fascinated with them. She finds it funny, the way they share their food and jump at nearly every noise, despite the giant weapons strapped to their back.

            They’re partners, she realizes. Salem told her that every Huntsman has a partner, a fighter they’ve trained with since adolescence who will defend them with their life. But this man and woman are more than just that. She teases him. He flirts, tossing compliments like sugary candies. They walk perpetually in each other’s personal space, always bumping arms, legs, shoulders. Watching them fills Pyrrha a thrilling sense of longing.

            In this new body, could she ever have a love like that?

            The thought immediately sours. She was not made to love. She is a weapon, sent to destroy Yang Xiao Long and anyone else who might stop her from getting the Relic back to Salem. Her mother. The only one who knows what’s best.

            At night, Pyrrha folds herself against a tree outside the lovers’ camp. She can hear them talking in low whispers, followed by the smacking of lips and heavy breaths. It makes her feel something like a blush, dust running hot through her veins, spreading a wave of heat beneath the cold bone of her mask.

            Overwhelmed, she rises and tucks herself into a tree further from the clearing.

            She doesn’t have to sleep; her body requires only energy from dust and Salem’s realm, and she can draw plenty of that from the invisible currents running all throughout Remnant. Still, she likes it. It makes her feel more alive, like the Huntsman and Huntress she’s followed. But not human. Humans are her enemies, useful only for getting what she needs to complete her mission. That’s all these lovers can be.

            Curling her knees against her chest, Pyrrha repeats this over and over until sleep tows her under.

+

            _Somewhere in Remnant, a little girl chases her mother through a field of wheat._

_Her hair is red. Her eyes are green. She’s too tall and gangly for a girl her age, yet she runs with the grace of a practiced dancer, leaping one pointed foot after another. “You will enchant the world one day,” her mother tells her, and so she tries—oh, does she try—to prove her right, the gold ribbon from her hair now flopping through the air as a makeshift wand._

_Finally, her mother slows down just enough for the little girl to tag her with her ribbon. “You got me!” she cries, then she scoops her daughter into her arms and spins her. Together, they burst into laughter, and the woman holds her daughter closer._

_Curiously, the little girl reaches for one of her mother’s earrings. The flash of gold and emerald entrances her._

_“Like those, don’t you?”_

_The little girl nods. “They’re beautiful, Mama.”_

_Her mother taps her nose. “Just like you.”_

_She sets her daughter back on the ground, only to lean down beside her and whisper, “You can have them one day if you want them. You just have to promise me one thing.”_

_“What’s that?”_

_“Always be a good girl, my little victory,” she says. “Let the world love you, but never let them turn your heart.”_

_“I won’t, Mama. I promise.”_

_They lock pinkies, and then mother leads daughter back through the fields, towards the red-roofed house in the distance they call home._

+

            Pyrrha wakes, her crystal heart battering in her ribs, to the sight of a shattered moon grinning through the trees. She grabs at something to anchor herself, finding purchase on the neck of her javelin. It wasn’t real. Though it certainly felt like it. She swears she could feel the summer wind brushing her face, her mother’s arms around her waist, the gold of her earrings between her fingers…

            A dream. Of course she can dream. In this body she has thoughts, a mind. Dreams have to come with that.

            She shouldn’t think about it too much. Her mind, though capable of dreaming, is still young, and it needs rest. If she can’t sleep again, she should at least lie dormant until the Huntsman and Huntress set out again in the morning, and she can keep following them.

            The moon colors the forest floor in hues of lurid blue, and Pyrrha busies herself with finding patterns in it. Her gaze traces the edges of glossy-leafed plants, follows the dark silhouettes of trees up their trunks to their leafy branches. Autumn has hit this part of Mistral only in the air—a cold wind siphons through the trees, just strong enough to make the tendrils of shadow that ring her face flutter.

            Eventually, she closes her eyes to the blue, and with her newfound imagination, chooses to lull herself to sleep in memories of gold.

+

            The next day, she follows the Huntsman and Huntress to the base of a small waterfall. From the shadows, she admires the beauty of it with them, the way the water bubbles and froths and catches every stray ray of sunlight like the facets of a jewel. But then the lovers decide to jump in, unbothered by the chill still hanging in the air, and when they start to help each other undress, Pyrrha retreats, burning from head to toe.

            “You’re moving slowly.”

            Pyrrha whirls on her heels to find Salem’s globe lurking in the underbrush. The red tentacles, capped in silver spikes, beckon to Pyrrha, and she comes closer, her embarrassed flush congealing into much colder shame.

            “Those Huntsmen are headed for Atlas, just like Yang Xiao Long,” she says. “Once I can be certain of my path, I will carry on ahead of them and find my targets.”

            “I was afraid of this,” she said. “I gave you a chance to find your own way, to wander these woods like every other Grimm I have forged, and you got distracted.”

            “Strategy isn’t distraction.”

            “You can’t fool me, child.”

            One of the tentacles stretches towards her, and on instinct, she prods it with her javelin. It does nothing. The tentacle wraps up the length of the weapon, uncoiling until its spike hovers mere centimeters from Pyrrha’s cheek.

            “You get one more night. If you aren’t moving and those Huntsmen aren’t dead by morning, I will replace your conscience with orders. Understood?”

            “Understood.”

            The tentacle unwinds, though too slowly for Pyrrha’s patience, and Salem draws her globe back into the void from which it came. It isn’t until it disappears completely, the last point of a tentacle slipping through the portal, that Pyrrha finds she regains a solid grip on her javelin.

            She returns to watching the Huntsman and Huntress, this time as they shimmy into their clothes and gather their things for the next leg of their journey, then faithfully, she follows.

+

            _On a rooftop at Beacon Academy, a girl with red hair and golden armor watches her partner drag a whetstone along the edge of his sword to sharpen it._

_They’re supposed to be training. Well, it’s more that she’ll be teaching, and he’ll be learning. Still, she’s the one who first offered, and after the first few late-night sessions, they’ve fallen into a routine. It’s just another thing they do as partners, she reasons. They live together, eat together, fight together, train on rooftops where no one can find them together. All of that is normal._

_Except you’re supposed to stop thinking about your partner at some point. You’re not supposed to lay awake long after he’s asleep in the bed next to yours while you dream about him holding your hand, or stealing you away for kisses before combat class, or just finally_ noticing _you after every hour you’ve been standing right there, waiting._

_That, the girl decides, could become a problem._

_Yet she can’t keep her eyes away. Moonlight snags on his sun-colored hair, shifting with every continued motion of his arm down the length of his blade. Her partner is soft, both in appearance and heart, but it’s the determined crease of his brow, the constant undercurrent of tenacity that wears him wherever he goes, that has her awestruck._

_And then there’s the way he treats her. He never knew her as a world-class fighter, or the girl from the cereal boxes. He never had any expectations. Her partner saw her on the first day of class as nothing but another person, and since that day, he’s never acted like she’s anything but._

_He tucks the whetstone in his pocket—a move that will definitely weigh him down in combat, turns his sword confidently in his hand, and fits himself into a fighting stance._

_Gods above, she’ll be helpless if she can’t have this boy._

_“You know, a sharper blade won’t always swing better,” she says. She hops down from the low balcony that encircles the roof and steps toward him, javelin drawn. “You’re holding your sword too high.”_

_He adjusts, blowing a sigh. “I’m trying.”_

_“I know you are. I wouldn’t ask for anything else.”_

Except for maybe a chance with you, _her thoughts bite. She has to stop thinking about that. Training her partner is about making him stronger—making them stronger together. And they’ll both be ineffective if she can’t keep her feelings in check._

_“How about we start on a blocking drill?” she offers._

_In a tight motion, she arcs her javelin towards his sword. Metal connects with metal, one hit chasing another. For the first time since they began training, the girl feels like she’s in a real spar—maybe he is learning, after all._

_“You’re doing great!” she exclaims._

_She speaks too soon. He loses his footing on her next hit and goes tumbling to the ground. When his feet fly up, she can see the black lines of marker on them, labeled for the left and right. Laughter bubbles from her chest._

_“Come on, let’s try that again.”_

_She offers him her hand, and contrary to his usual stubbornness, he takes it. The fabric of her gloves separates their skin, but she swears electricity still skitters down her arm when he tightens his thumb around hers. A little gasp flees her lips, and she can only hope that like every other sign of her feelings, he misses it._

_“Are you good?” he asks._

_“What? I’m fine.”_

_“Your eyes got really big there for a second.”_

_So_ that’s _what he noticed. “You fell on your butt. I was surprised.”_

_“You shouldn’t be.”_

_Though she’s reluctant to abandon his touch, she lets go of his hand and braces her javelin across her chest. “Then let’s change that.”_

+

            When Pyrrha rises, the sun is smudging color into the sky, making violet shadows of the trees. The dream sparks as only a brief flame in the back of her mind, but strangely, she has no desire to think on it, content to let it fade with the night. The place in her heart where she might feel hollow, having had such an intimate glimpse at this other girl’s life, has filled with a low, caustic burn she can only place as fury.

            Javelin pointed, she stalks silently toward the nearest clearing and breaches the boundary of the Huntsman and Huntress’s camp. She finds they’re still asleep, wrapped into the same sleeping bag, weapons scattering the ground beside them. Dew clings to the Huntress’s hair where she dozes on her lover’s chest. _Beautiful_ , Pyrrha thinks. They both are. Gently, Pyrrha tucks aside a strand of the Huntress’s dark hair, baring the long column of her neck. There’s a toothy bruise there, a mark of the Huntsman’s affection.

            Pyrrha deems it an excellent target.

            Slowly, she raises her javelin to the precise angle she needs it, poising the pointed end just above the Huntress’s neck. She does not hesitate. In one clean thrust, she spears both Huntress and Huntsman. They make no sound, no move to resist. Pyrrha recovers her weapon and strings it to her back, uncaring of the tracks of blood it drops as she leaves.

            They died together. It’s the only mercy she can offer on her mission—Yang Xiao Long certainly won’t be so fortunate.

            There’s no need for her to keep at a human’s pace, now that her former guides are taken care of, so Pyrrha bounds, left foot trailing the right, in pursuit of her final target.

+

            Jaune shouldn’t be playing the video again. He promised himself he’d stop, and since they arrived at Haven Academy, he had. But now that they’re on the road again, the anxiety born in him by the wilderness giving way to one sleepless night after another, he’s back to watching it on his scroll, if only to have something to cut the silence.

            _“I want you to know that I’m just happy to be a part of your life.”_

His breath hitches, and he pauses the video. She is, in some ways, still part of his life. He carries her circlet in his shield. He took her weapons and melded them with his own, praying it might let her still protect him. It’s what she wanted. To be there with him, every step of the journey.

            She wanted to be with him, period. He’ll never forgive himself for being too stupid to see that, too busy chasing a girl who would never want him to see that the one he really loved was right there at his side, always ready to put her life before his own.

            And it cost her. It cost them both.

            He hits play.

            _“I will always be here for you, Jaune.”_

She was too good for him—he’s always known that. Pyrrha Nikos was kind and brave and beautiful, a hero from the roots up. A real leader, instead of a poser like him.

            But he’s not all useless. His semblance saved Weiss, and there’s no telling how many more times it’ll help his teammates. He always thought being a hero meant being on the attack, staring danger in the face and then stabbing it in the gut. But helping his friends heal?

            Pyrrha would be proud of him for it. That much he’s sure of.

            He tucks his scroll into his pocket and reclines onto his sleeping bag. The moon watches him through the gaps in the trees, the same way it would when Pyrrha trained him on the rooftop at Beacon. She never had to do that. Easily, she could’ve let him fall behind and fail, maybe gotten a new partner who could actually keep up. But she insisted, desperate to carve a hero from his foolish ambition because she loved him. Because she looked past his all his shortcomings and found something worthy of _being loved._

            Whatever she saw in him, that bright spark of a future he could never see for himself, he makes a promise to the stars he won’t stop chasing it.

+

            _The redhead girl in golden armor is the perfect portrait of a hero, yet magic could never feel more wrong in her veins._

_Headmaster Ozpin said it would “take some getting used to”, having the powers of the Fall Maiden. That was a severe understatement. Still fresh, the power feels like it’s crawling under her skin, making hot currents of her blood. There’s no time left to let it bother her—she knows what she has to do from here. Climb the tower, kill the impostor, save the school._

_But before any of that, she’ll be damned if she doesn’t kiss that boy._

_The girl finds him out in the courtyards. He keeps his sword and shield in hand, ready as always, but his face is wrung with fear and uncertainty. Pyrrha wishes she could take it from him, bear the weight of whatever leadens his heart._

_The least she can do is set him free._

_He wants to fight. Always, hopelessly, he wants to fight, but she gives him the directive to stay behind. He protests, and she corks his words with the press of her lips. At first, he freezes, but then his lips are matching her fervor, his arms coming to wind around her waist. It’s a dream come true—just at the worst possible time._

_When she pulls away, he’s breathless. Her own lips are aching. She’d do it again, if she had the time. Should she survive the night, she makes a silent promise that she will._

_She tells him goodbye. Then she sends for his weapon, shoves him in the locker, and runs head-first towards her destiny._

+

            Pyrrha spends the day boiling in sunlight and rage. For once, her dreams gave her a name, and she curses it. _Ozpin._ The man her mother despises. The one who tears friends and lovers apart. Should she find him on this path, she’ll have no trouble making him suffer.

            But so far she’s only encountered harmless animals and a few small Grimm. Nothing to worry about, and nothing to hunt.

            The forest grows thick again as noontime lapses into mid-afternoon, and Pyrrha angles her stride in and out of the shade, strength bursting through their limbs as the sun shifts position and the shadows lengthen. She feels at home in them. After a while, all the running starts to numb her thoughts, pushing Ozpin and the girl with the red hair far from her mind. 

            Her peace doesn’t last long. There’s rustling up ahead, mingled with voices. Pyrrha slows to a jog and inches closer to the source of the noise. Three boys—Huntsman academy students, judging by their soft faces and complicated weapons—stalk through an overgrown path, tall weeds brushing up their knees. She can’t make out their exact words, but she can tell from their tone that they’re arguing. Which means they’re distracted.

            They would never see her coming. 

            Just as it did in the presence of the Huntsman lovers, bloodlust swells inside her chest, threatening to strangle her if she doesn’t act on it. It’s what she was born for. To kill. To dig her claws and weapons into human flesh and make them grovel bloody and broken at her feet for mercy.

            She draws her javelin and comes out of the shadows.

            The boys don’t notice her following. They’re too wrapped up in their argument—which seems to have turned playful, since she first spotted them—and are now throwing pieces of grass at one another.

            She should just run again, she realizes. Killing them, exhilarating as it might be, would be a waste of time. They are not her targets. One large Grimm could make shorter work of them. She dips back into the trees and resumes her pace.

            Strangely, as she runs, she finds herself thinking of food, remembering the Huntsmen she killed carving apples and cheese between the two of them, tossing grapes into each other’s mouths. The thought makes her stomach roil in emptiness.

            But she shouldn’t be hungry. Physically, she can’t be—darkness and dust have no need for food. Yet her daydreams fix on something doughy and sweet, swimming in amber syrup, and her mouth feels inexplicably wet.

            Maybe she needs more rest than she thought.

            Not now. She shoves distraction out of her mind and keeps running. The Relic is close. She can almost feel it, drawing her near on some invisible reel.  

            When voices fill the trees again, she knows she’s made the right choice to keep going. The woods are thicker here, allowing her more cover as she stalks towards this next procession of travelers, silently hoping she’s found her target at last.

            Her view through the trees is promising: a large party of Huntsmen, all orbiting the profile of one woman. Pyrrha glimpses her in fragments. She has a strong, long-legged gait. Dandelion hair, falling in messy ringlets down her back. A pack strapped across her chest, softly suffusing golden light.

            Yang Xiao Long matches every detail Salem gave her.

            Pyrrha lingers among the trees. The other ten Huntsmen in Yang’s party guard her on all sides, weapons locked in hand, and the path is still too narrow—with so little room to maneuver, she’d be cornered in moments. Light may not conquer her shadows, but blades and hammers certainly could, at that range.

            She stalks Xiao Long’s party until sunset, when they set up camp amidst a gathering of ruins in a clearing. The sun-faded arches and thickets of ivy make for ample shelter for them, but for Pyrrha, many a place to hide. She fits herself behind a column plastered in lichen, lines her javelin up with her body, and waits.

            When one of the Huntresses calls for Yang, Pyrrha turns. Leans her head just enough to watch her target cross the camp, notice she’s missing an arm. This will be much easier than Salem made it seem.

            Pyrrha points her javelin, steps out of the ruins. And with a single bound, she strikes.

+

            “Nora, where did you put my canteen?”

            Jaune stares into the belly of his bag, rummaging around through his supplies. He could’ve sworn she gave it back to him when he let her borrow it earlier this afternoon, after she lost her own.

            “I don’t remember, Jaune,” she chirps from where she’s laying out her sleeping bag. Her spot falls in the shadow of one of the ruins’ looming columns, and given its position, should keep the sun out of her eyes in the morning. “Ask Ren.”

            Ren pulls his own canteen from the pocket of his pants. “This one’s mine,” he replies. “Ruby?”

            Jaune looks over his shoulder, following Ren’s gaze just in time to watch Ruby shrug. “I haven’t seen it,” she says. Then she turns, circling her hands around her mouth, and shouts, “Hey Yang!”

            Yang breaks off from her conversation with Blake and Sun and moves for their side of the camp—

            —but makes only two steps before something black and sharp spears the air in front of her, causing her to duck. No sooner does she rise, and the weapon comes wheeling back towards her. Crouching, she rolls out of the way and onto one knee.

            “What the hell was that?”

            Jaune traces the weapon’s path with his eyes, his mouth going slack when it lands in the palm of a woman made of darkness, her body and face plated in red-patterned armor. Grimm. But not like any other Grimm they’ve faced—those resemble the animals they know, bears and horses and wolves. This one looks _human,_ complete with a ponytail of black hair swaying against her back. Shadows ribbon up the length of her javelin, riveting it to her hand.

            Qrow’s voice sounds from across the camp. “Everyone, draw your weapons!”

            “We’ll protect Yang,” Blake calls, motioning to herself and Sun.

            The Grimm warrior charges, her free arm extended and writhing with shadows. Nora is the first to run to Yang’s defense, hammer up. She slams it down toward the warrior’s extended arm, but she misses, and the arm curls around Magnhild, tossing it out of her hands. The warrior moves for Nora herself, next, but Jaune and Ren step in to protect her, weapons up.

            They don’t last long against the Grimm. After evading another throw of her javelin, they both have their weapons ripped from their hands. While Qrow takes aim at her, Jaune skids to the edge of the camp where Crocea Mors was thrown. The closest Huntress to it is Weiss, holding Myrtenaster at a sharp angle to the ground as she attempts to summon a creature out of a massive glyph.

            Jaune picks up his shield first, then his sword. Weiss spots him in her periphery and turns her head, nodding to him.

            “Have you ever seen a Grimm that looks like a human?” she asks.

            “No,” he says, and the answer comes out a lot higher than he wants it to. “And I don’t really want to know what a human-Grimm might mean.”

            He runs back into the fight, sliding into position at Ruby’s side. Qrow seems to be holding off the Grimm—for now. She’s fighting with the shadow hand, but she has the javelin poised upwards in a way that Jaune finds disconcertingly familiar,

            No. This thing before him, whatever it is, is a monster. He feels sick at the thought of even _comparing_ it to Pyrrha.

            Qrow’s skirmish doesn’t last long. When he tries to avoid the warrior’s javelin, it grazes his ribcage, sending him toppling onto his back. She rips Harbinger from his hand before he can recover himself.

            Hair whipping, she turns on her next target. Sun and Blake, standing at Yang’s guard. Beneath her mask, her spectral jaw moves, and Jaune’s own mouth bobs open in shock—Grimm, as far as he knows, cannot speak.  

            “That Relic will never be yours,” she declares in her many voices, all garbled and warring in pitch. “It belongs to Mother Salem, and her alone.”

            Jaune doesn’t know what possesses him to run. Stupidity, probably. Maybe bravery. This isn’t exactly the time to contemplate. He runs sword-first into her side as she moves for Yang, javelin aimed.

            His maneuver only seems to irritate her. With one stroke of her hand, she throws him through the air and onto his back. The wind flies from his lungs. Pain needles over his chest from where her shadows touched him.

            Then her boot digs into his knee, his thigh. She shoots out her arm again, keeping him pinioned to the ground by the shoulder, and lowers the point of the javelin to just above his Adam’s apple. His heart thunders out of his chest. He tries to lift his sword, but the Grimm only tightens her hold on her shoulder, shadows burning.

            Why hasn’t she killed him yet? Better yet, why aren’t any of his teammates trying to stop it?

            The warrior leans down, though her javelin does not move. Jaune swallows thickly. Crimson light flashes behind the scroll-thin slots of her mask. The shadows that make up her body have formed the most intricate of features—a sharp jaw, full, curving lips, a distinctly angled nose. They’re almost…familiar.

            “Stupid boy,” she chides. “Do you think your friends want to watch you die, too?”

            Her words turn his veins to ice. Of her many voices, one timbre rises above the others, one he knows as intimately as his insomniac nights alone, playing that voice over and over.

            She waits for an answer. He gives her a name.

            “Pyrrha?”

+

            The boy knows her name. The boy knows her _name._

            She draws the point of her javelin away from his throat, loosens her grip on his shoulder.

            “Salem,” the boy in her grip mutters, forced by a heavy breath. “Why would she do this? Why would she do this to you?”

            Pain spreads through her jaw. Her red eyes ache with heat. She doesn’t understand it, this feeling. Never on her journey has she grappled with this undeniable urge to break to pieces.

            “It isn’t her, Jaune,” the redhead girl cries, readying her hammer. “Salem…she’s just trying to mess with our heads.”

            Pyrrha’s face twists as rage fills her body, fusing any cracks. She leaves the sun-haired boy to writhe on the ground while she goes for the girl in the pink, then the boy in the green. Disarming them is easy—they flee like frightened children, scrambling for weapons she will only rip away. And then she will rip away their lives, one by one, until her mission is complete.

            The other Huntsmen start in on the assault. The white haired-girl with her sword and glyphs, the chameleon Faunus with her whip and camouflage. She grabs them each and throws them into the ground, dividing them from their weapons, and each other.

            But then there is the wildcard. The girl with silver eyes steps in front of her without a wrinkle of fear on her porcelain face, the handle of her bloodred scythe braced over her heart.

            “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says. “But if I have to, I will.”

            Pyrrha snarls. “Do your worst.”

            With a quick turn of her scythe, the silver-eyed girl fires on her from the crest of her staff, the kickback driving her further from her target. Pyrrha catches the bullets with her flexible arm, packaging them in whorls of dust and darkness before crushing them.

            The girl backs away even further, posture shrinking. “I’ve never seen a Grimm that can do that,” she mutters.

            “Because she’s no ordinary Grimm.”

            Pyrrha turns in the direction of the voice. It’s the blond boy, the one who knew her name. He limps towards her, sword and shield recovered, brow furrowed deep enough to pull shadows into his eyes.

            He speaks the truth—Pyrrha is far from ordinary. She is Salem’s daughter, the pride of her war, her greatest weapon. She will fight the battles her mother cannot. She will destroy all of them, if that’s what it takes to get the Relic in her hands.

            Starting with the girl with silver eyes.

            She throws her javelin at her heart. The hit nearly lands true, if not for a child darting from behind her, shoving her out of its path. Pyrrha snaps the javelin back into her hands. The boy rolls to his feet, guarding himself with a cane. She recognizes it, though she doesn’t know how, or from where. She only knows this boy is getting in her way.

            Pyrrha swings the javelin around to the blunt end and shoves it into his chest, sending him flying.

            “You’ll regret that,” the silver-eyed girl says through gritted teeth, though it does little to make her high voice intimidating.

            Pyrrha will not regret what she did to that child. Nor will she regret what she’s about to do to this one. She whirls the javelin back into position and throws it, right for the girl’s head.

            Yet she misses. The girl swings her scythe through the air where her body had been, and Pyrrha’s scythe lodges in the metal. It’s only a minor setback. Pyrrha can fight well enough without her javelin, and now the girl’s weapon is corrupted. Victory should be easy.

            Pyrrha readies her arms, but the girl doesn’t move. She’s a fool, standing so resolute in the face of her death. A hero, maybe. But certainly a fool.

            “Your soul is still in there, Pyrrha,” she says. “I can feel it.”

            _Soul._ Pyrrha doesn’t know that word, but it feels…right. Just like her name.

            Salem’s voice sears in the back of her mind. She’s getting distracted. And if she’s distracted, she’ll lose, and Salem will take her life away, just as easily as she granted it.

            Pyrrha lunges at the silver-eyed girl, body teeming with fresh shadows, only to be batted to the ground by her own weapon.

            Silver-eyes digs the blunt curve of the scythe into Pyrrha’s chest, pressing her back into the dirt. Then she calls for Jaune, the boy who _knew_ Pyrrha, and he jogs over, hammer girl and the boy in green on his heels. Pyrrha watches them all from the ground, straining against the pressure of the girl’s weapon.

            “Jaune, you have to try something,” she pleads.

            “Aura can’t heal Grimm,” Jaune says, tossing his weapons and falling at Pyrrha’s side, “but if she has a soul…it might at least be able to set her free. Get her out of this Grimm body.”

            Get her out? No. Pyrrha _is_ Grimm. That cannot be taken away. But Jaune still places his hands—his warm, callused hands—on either side of her head, along the outside edge of her masks, like he believes it can.

            Hammer girl is next to weigh in. “It’s not going to work.”

            He only angles his head toward Pyrrha, gazing at her with the softest of blue eyes. “You have to let me try.”

            Then he closes his eyes, and Pyrrha is helpless as she watches his body flare with fluid light.

            “Come clean, Pyrrha,” he whispers. “Come back to us.”

            His light splits her world to fragments. A storm of dust heats her veins, as if a hundred suns are blooming and bursting within them. Maybe she’s the one dying. Maybe this was all a ploy, to lure her in by her curiosity and then rip her apart, piece by burning piece.

            White overtakes her vision. Nothingness. A perfect clean slate.

            Then, she sees everyone, everything. Beacon. Ruby and her team, tossing food at each other in the cafeteria. Ren and Nora across the dorm room, legs crossed as they sit on Ren’s bed while he forces Nora to study. The packed stands at the Vytal Festival Tournament, crowds cheering her name. And Jaune, asking her to dance, smiling at her under a broken glass moon. She knows all of them. Her heart swells as though it might grow too big for her ribs.

            These people, these faces—she _loves_ them. And they love her, too. They are her real family. Not Salem.

            It’s a liberating realization, only amplified by the weight of red steel lifting from her chest. Something is happening to her—she is changing. Growing, solidifying. Veins and muscle stretch across her bones. Skin laces over them. She feels her hair, soft and fine, curl around her face.

            “Guys, are you seeing this?” a hazy voice shouts.

            Pyrrha’s eyes snap open, and hesitantly, Jaune lifts the mask from her face. She stares into his eyes, counting those familiar facets of watery blue, and takes her first breath.

            “Jaune,” she says on the exhale.

            “I knew it was you.”

            “Hey, Jaune!” the redhead girl calls. Nora. Her teammate. Her _friend._ “You better kiss her, you dolt!”  

            And without a flicker of hesitation, he does.

+

            They’ve placed Pyrrha on a sleeping bag in the shelter of the ruins, a few scratchy blankets strewn over her legs for warmth. Blinking into alertness, she tugs them over her chest and readjusts on her back, though the sleeping bag does little to cushion her spine.

            She doesn’t know how long she’s been out. The only indication of time passed comes through a hole in the roof, allowing her to see a small cut of the stars. At her side, a lantern sits dormant. Easing her new body onto its right hip, she reaches over and turns it the knob, letting weak light splash across the walls.

            Footsteps follow almost immediately—unwittingly, she’s called for assistance. A secret part of her hopes it’s Jaune, though she knows she’d be happy to see any of her friends. Her _friends._ A whole slew of people who love her. The joy at the thought nearly overwhelms her.

            Still, she can’t help feeling the tiniest twinge of disappointment when it’s Yang who appears in the archway instead.

            Pyrrha’s gaze travels from Yang’s face, which is crinkled in concern, to her sleeve. The sight of Yang’s missing arm makes Pyrrha’s heart—her real, blood and muscle heart—constrict. She hates herself for thinking of it as a weakness, even if the Grimm body was out of her control. After all she’s been through, Yang must have unimaginable strength.

            “You know,” she starts, taking a knee to be closer to Pyrrha’s eye level, “my mother _did_ once say she’s seen people come back from the dead.”

            Pyrrha tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow. Yang offers her hand, and Pyrrha uses it to lift herself into a sitting position. Pain lances down her spine, causing her to clench her teeth.

            “How are you feeling?” Yang asks.

            “Tired. Everything is coming back, but slowly.” Pyrrha pauses, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “You _are_ Yang, right?”

            Yang waves her stub arm. “Sure am.”

            “I was,” Pyrrha stammers. A sudden flush of guilt makes her cover her mouth with her hand. “I was sent to kill you.”

            But for all Pyrrha’s shame, Yang just laughs. “You’re not the first.”

            Pyrrha lowers her hand. “The Relics—what do they do? One of the things I do remember is Ozpin telling me the Relic at Beacon had to be protected, just before the powers of the Fall Maiden were transferred.”

            Yang rummages in her pack, biting her lip. She removes a pile of rumpled, olive and yellow fabric. “We’ll talk about all that once you’ve rested. Here’s a change of clothes—it’ll get you out of that Grimm armor. But first,” she stalls. “You have a few visitors.”

            She stands and leaves, only to be replaced by two others. Nora ducks inside with Ren’s hand glued to her shoulder, and Pyrrha feels her whole body soften, only to freeze up again when Nora tackles her in a bear hug, nearly knocking her back to the ground.

            “I missed you so much,” she squeals into Pyrrha’s shoulder. “You and I have a _whole_ lot of catching up to do.”

            Pyrrha gathers the strength to return Nora’s embrace, holding her to her chest. “You better tell me everything.”

            Eventually, Nora pulls away, if only to cup her cheeks. “Oh my gods. You’re real. My best friend literally came back from the dead?”

            Pyrrha’s throat gets a little tighter. “Best friend?”

            “I mean, yeah,” Nora says, drawing back. “You, Ren, and Jaune. We’re best friends. You know, Team JNPR at it again. When you’re feeling better, of course.”

            “Of course.”

            Nora rises, and Ren replaces her at Pyrrha’s side. “Well, I think she covered it…”

            “That’s okay, Ren. You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

            “Likewise,” he says. Then he rests a hand on her neck, hovers close, and leaves the gentlest of kisses on her forehead. Pyrrha gives his shoulder a soft squeeze to thank him.

            Nora captures his hand in hers when he gets up. “Why didn’t I get one of those?”

            “Did you come back from the dead?”

            “No…”

            He ruffles her hair. “Later, okay?”

            A grin breaks across Pyrrha’s face. Of all the things that have changed since the fall of Beacon, she’s glad Ren and Nora have stayed the same—if they _do_ seem a bit more affectionate. She’ll have to ask Nora to fill her in on all that.

            Ren starts to lead them out of the shelter, and Nora turns over her shoulder, shouting a quick, “We’ll be right back.”

            Pyrrha’s next visitor enters just as Ren and Nora leave, giving her little time to catch her breath before the sight of him steals it away.

            Jaune, sword and shield locked firmly in hand, walks toward her with all the poise of a seasoned hero. _Her_ hero.

            It’s what he’s become, in her absence—it has to be. Though she laments not being there to help him more, she can’t help but proudly beam, eyes growing hot with rising tears. There’s a new strength wearing him, etched in the broader set of his shoulders and determined light in his eyes. But it’s his gentleness, warm and familiar as that first caress of his hands along her cheeks, that melts her as he lays down his weapons and kneels at her side.

            “Hello, again,” she says.

            He reaches for her hands, threads their fingers together. “Hi, Pyrrha,” he says. “You hanging in there okay?”

            “I’m tired,” she admits. _And my hours-old heart is racing at the fact that you’re touching me._

            “I can only imagine.”

            “My head is kind of swimming right now, with all the memories coming back. And I’ve been in a Grimm body for so long…this one is going to take some getting used to.”

            “But you’re back to being you,” Jaune says, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. “I’d tell you how much I missed you, but I don’t really think I can gather all the words right now.”

            Pyrrha shakes her head, blinking back tears. “You don’t have to.”

            “Pyrrha, you were dead,” he blurts. “We mourned you.”

            “And you kept moving forward. I wouldn’t have wanted anything else.”

            She leans in towards him, close enough to make her lips burn, and touches their foreheads briefly. “I am so, so proud of you,” she whispers, then pulls away to face him. “You discovered your semblance.”

            “You always told me I had a lot of aura in me.”

            “I know. That was one of the first things I remembered when I woke up again. Me, unlocking your aura that day in the forest. And now, you…” she says, swallowing, “you’ve unlocked my life.”  

            He lets go of one of her hands, but only to brush a finger across her cheek, then her jaw. “And I’ll heal you again, however many times it takes, so long as I get to keep you by my side.”

            If she was breathing before, she certainly isn’t now.

            “Hey, there’s something I want to show you,” he says, though his words barely cut through the haze left in Pyrrha’s mind by his promise. She watches him get up and grab Crocea Mors, studying every plane and angle of his frame as he bends down to retrieve them. Yes, he has _definitely_ gotten stronger.

            “Your circlet,” he says, returning to his place beside her. He points to an intricate, golden design arced above the bottom point of his shield, and she smiles in recognition. “When you died, I had it smelted down and fused with my shield. Your weapons, too. They’re part of my sword.”

            She regards them in awe, tracing a careful hand over the smooth surface of the shield. “Jaune, these weapons were your grandfather’s once, right?” she asks. “A family heirloom?”

            He turns the sword. “Sure were.” He gives her soft, close-lipped smile, one that makes her feel a little weak in the knees. If she weren’t sitting down, she might fall over. “You’re my family now, Pyrrha. If you’re okay with that.”

            Finally, her tears break free. Of course she’s okay with that. Since the very moment she saw him, her soul has yearned for his. To be bound like this, their partnership forged in fire and gold—that’s better than anything her daydreams could conjure.

            Seeing her cry, Jaune drops his weapons and scoots closer, curves an arm around her back. She spends a moment with her cheek pressed into the armor on his shoulder, tears wetting the black fabric of his sweatshirt. She almost forgot about that—Jaune’s idea of hunting gear is Huntsman armor over jeans and a _sweatshirt._

            “Pyrrha, look. In my hand.”

            She peels off his shoulder and glances down. He has a palm outstretched, and in it, two gold-and-emerald earrings, last found hanging from the delicate chains on her circlet. A toothy smile parts her lips.  

            “You can have these back,” Jaune says, edging his hand forward. “I…I really wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I’ve just had them in my pocket the whole time.”

            One by one, she takes his fingers and folds them over his palm before covering his hand with her own. “Keep them,” she says. She inches her face closer. “You’ll find a good use for them, someday. I trust you.”

            He tilts his head, just enough to let their noses brush. “I can’t believe I have you back.”

            She closes her eyes, smile turning playful. “Then maybe I can make it feel real.”

            They move on the same instinct. He kisses her softly, hesitantly, as if she might break apart in his arms. But she won’t. She kisses him with the same intensity as she did that night at Beacon, only this time, it’s not a kiss goodbye, but one “hello” after another, each a tiny promise that this—and Pyrrha—is here to stay. No matter the bumps. No matter the consequences.

            Jaune tilts her head back, easing her slowly onto the sleeping bag. He’s hardly graceful, his kisses eager and messy, but Pyrrha wouldn’t have it any differently. All she wants his him. He fits his knee between her legs, steadying himself over her body, and she knots her fingers in her hair, pulling him closer.

            The Tower of Beacon was where they ended. But this, here in the dust and light of the ruins, is where they begin again.

+

            Pyrrha wakes to a strong arm wrapped around her waist, its hand cupped under her ribcage. Gently, she shifts to loosen Jaune’s grip—just enough so she can actually _breathe_ —and opens her eyes to pale sunlight pouring through the inn room windows, the flower that was a mere bud on the windowsill last now fanned in full, crimson glory.

            Closing her eyes again, she settles in against Jaune, taking his hand where it rests at her side. She’s had a lot of nightmares since her revival, but last night, the dream was sweet, and she isn’t eager to let it fade. It was about her mother—her real mother—and Pyrrha decides that once the communications towers are back online, she’ll have to find a way to tell her she’s alive. Her mother has always been a kind woman, but she has no idea how her soft heart will handle the news. How much she’s grieved since she learned her daughter was killed.

            Only time will tell when that happens, though. Things are incessantly complicated. With the addition of Pyrrha, there are now twelve Huntsmen on the run with the Relic. Even though Pyrrha’s Grimm body is gone and she’s human again, her soul purified, she worries Salem may still have a way to track her. And then there’s Professor Ozpin—the man who sent her to her death—traveling among their ranks, hiding within the body of a child.

            It seems being the perfect Huntress will hardly get her very far, in this strange new war.

            But the worrying is for later. This morning, their first in a real bed since she was revived, is for her and Jaune.

            She rolls over to face him and brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “Wake up, sleepy.”

            He only grunts. _Boys._ She takes up a different method, leaving kisses on his nose, his cheeks, his mouth, still puffy from sleep. It isn’t until her lips touch the tender skin beneath his ear that he jolts awake.

            “Pyrrha?” he mumbles.

            “Mm?”

            He rolls onto his back, but tightens his grip on her ribcage and takes her with him, so she’s halfway on top of him. She cards her fingers through his hair again, which finally gets him to open his eyes.

            “Do we have to get up this early?” Ruby’s uncle said we’re not moving again until noon.”

            “I’m hungry,” she answers, fitting her nose into the crook of his neck. “But I can’t remember the food I want.”

            “That’s what this is about?”

            She pouts, propping herself up on his chest. “Jaune, this is serious. Ren made something for us all the time when we were still at Beacon—it was totally unhealthy, but I want it anyway.”

            “Pancakes, Pyrrha,” Jaune says, followed by a low laugh that makes his chest shudder against her own. You’re thinking of pancakes.”

            She kisses his nose. “Thank you, Jaune.”

            Them she flops back down and lets him twine their hands together across the sheets. He presses tiny kisses to her hair, each a soft reminder that she’s alive. That their impossible fairy tale is real.

            “I love you,” he whispers, just loudly enough for her to catch it, and chills bloom across her skin.

            She looks up at him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips set in that soft smile that always makes her weary.

            “I love you, too,” she says, and then she leans in to kiss him again, stopping just before their lips fully brush.

            Jaune runs a hand down her spine, and for the first time since her revival, it doesn’t hurt. “What are you doing?”

            She almost laughs at the little break in his voice, because it’s just so _him._ “I still can’t believe I got you.”

            He leans back into the pillow. “That’s what you can’t believe? Not that I—how do I put this—brought you back from the dead?”

            “I knew you could do anything, Jaune,” Pyrrha coos. “I’m just glad to be here with you.”

            Impatient, he grabs the back of her neck, connecting their lips, and Pyrrha happily obliges, content to do this forever, if that’s he wanted. She certainly hopes they have forever. At least, that’s the destiny she’ll be chasing.

            She won countless battles, she made it into the best Academy in all of Remnant, she cheated _death,_ but it’s a boy with his shoes marked left-and-right that Pyrrha, above all else, believes is her greatest victory.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: WOW writing Grimm! Pyrrha was a trip. I just wanted to hug her the whole time. I feel like if she comes back in the series, it’ll go something like this (AKA painfully, with Pyrrha as a Grimm). Raven’s line “I’ve seen people come back from the dead” just haunts me you know? And coupled with the existence of Dr. Watts, a character based on Victor Frankenstein, plus Pyrrha’s catchphrase literally being “hello AGAIN”…you know where I’m going with this. Coming up with her Grimm powers was pretty fun, too. Anyway, all comments and kudos are loved and appreciated, and if you wanna keep up with what I’m doing, follow me on twitter @lumailia !


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